


play me like a piano and ill paint you like one of my french girls

by deadlydawn



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Cute, Fluff, M/M, all the ironies, dave does photography, john plays piano, three shot
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-27
Updated: 2017-12-27
Packaged: 2019-02-22 18:05:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,317
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13172340
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deadlydawn/pseuds/deadlydawn
Summary: Wherein Dave Strider, photographer extraordinaire, meets John Egbert, piano prodigy. Friendships, dates, and kisses shortly ensue.





	play me like a piano and ill paint you like one of my french girls

He’s a musician. You are an artist. Well, you’re also pretty virtuosic if you do say so yourself - it takes some serious talent to be able to dabble this well in a rap battle, accompanied by some sick beats you either produced yourself or remixed together. And he could be somewhat artistic, you supposed….hey pranking is an art! Or so he says.

So you guys weren’t on complete opposites of the art spectrum. Still, you majored in the fine arts and he minored in music (with a major in something you’re not too sure of? Biology? The weird kind?) and the two topics were close enough to be in the same part of campus. The music hall was just across the street from the art district, where you spent most of your time either doodling shitty comics or developing the black and white photographs you captured. Your focus was in photography, since your actual artistic talent was limited to small cartoonistic doodles of two onsie-dressed men dicking around and tripping over two dimensional staircases. 

But you digress. You were pretty happy with your doodles, even if others couldn’t really see the humor in it. You posted your comics online, and received well enough feedback, despite the shitty quality of your art. All in all, it was pretty ironic - how many people followed your online comic and how big of a fanbase you actually had. The whole going to college and majoring in art thing was pretty ironic too. Your entire life was one big ball of irony, and you fucking loved it. 

So when one day you decided to go into the music hall in an attempt to contract some form of inspiration for your next set of photos, you were shocked to find a handsome, pale, black-haired man sitting right in the middle of the hall. He was playing classical music on the grand piano centered in the middle of the floor. His movements were flowy, and he seemed encaptured in the tune, failing to notice the awkward lanky blonde behind him. 

Your mind told you it’d be totally ironic to take a few inelegant snaps of the boy - his poise might be perfect, but the composition of the photo would be totally wrecked from where you’re standing behind a podium. It’d be irony in its purest forms. 

So you did it. After a brief moment of adjusting the focus and the aperture, you took a picture, the lens clicking loudly as your finger pressed down on the capture button. This stopped the ravonette in his tracks, his head flipping back to find the startling noise. 

His eyes met yours, and your heart skipped a beat. 

A never-ending ocean of blue expanded before you. You quickly cranked your film, and adjusted the zoom, before raising the camera and taking another shot. You momentarily praised yourself for choosing color film today. 

This guy was fucking beautiful. 

“Um….can I help you?” He questioned, and as he opened his mouth a pair of wide, large front teeth revealed themselves. Paired up with his oversized glasses and chibi ghostbusters shirt, you were able to successfully conclude that this guy was a huge dork. A huge, cute dork. 

“Yeah actually. Shift to the side a little, and pose your hands over the keys, look like you’re playing something complicated but not too complicated but don’t sit straight like, slouch a little, as if you’re way too into the music to actually care about poise.” You directed, moving closer as you unfocused and refocused the lens a few times. 

Much to your surprise, and enjoyment, he actually humored your request. He dramatically posed over the piano, fingers digging into a few keys that resonated throughout the hall. His back was hunched over the piano and his face looked to be deep in concentration - buck teeth denting his lower lip as he bit into it, eyes closed and brows furrowed. 

Fuck. You didn’t know whether this guy was being overly-dramatic and complying with your demands to mock you, or if he was doing it jokingly. Or maybe it was to be ironic? Nah, other people don’t really dwell over the whole irony thing like you and your brothers do. Nor do they take it to the extent that you guys do. Y’know, basing your whole life around irony and everything.

Regardless of his intentions, you proceed to snap various photos, the blue-eyed beauty posing as you directed. You even said a few sly comments, like ‘oh yeah baby, show me what you got,’ or ‘work it girl,’ which actually garnered a few short snickers from the man. It was really fun actually, not that you’d ever admit it, and before long your entire roll of film was almost finished. Only one photo left.

And you knew what you wanted to spend it on. 

“Now, look up into the camera with the biggest, most depressed looking eyes you can muster,” you said, and the boy snorted at that.

“Is this for some kind of sociology project on the dangers of depression and the magical healing powers of music?” He mused, smiling up at you cheesily. 

You almost smiled back. Almost.

Striders don’t ever smile though, so you quickly will the urge down deep inside you. 

“Nah bro. All these photos will be developed and then used in a ton of posters advertising my latest gallery opening, your big sad eyes on the cover, luring people into my exhibit. And then they’ll open the doors only to find everything from the ceiling to the floor plastered in your dorky ass face, and your incredibly moving piano piece will play in the background as they walk through the halls and see the literal process of a musician overcoming grief and pain through the sweet melodies of Beethoven. It’ll be a hit.”

 

The guy laughed, disbelieving. Your face stayed bare, not revealing for a moment that you were joking. So after a few minutes of laughing, he stopped, eyes widening. 

“Wait, you’re not actually serious right?” He questioned, head tilting to the side much like dogs do when they’re trying to figure out the source of a sound.

“I am completely and utterly serious. Didn’t you know? I’m a famous artist. My photographs are everywhere dude. As a matter of fact you should be thanking me for taking the time to photograph an amateur student model such as yourself.” 

His eyebrows shot up into his hairline, and for a second you thought he was buying it. “Oh, I’m so sorry! I didn’t recognize you. What did you say your name was…?” 

“Dave. Dave Strider.” 

“Dave! Right. Well, it was pleasure doing business with you. I’m expecting my paycheck in the mail by next week. My apartment building is located in Prospit, floor 4, room 13 and my name is John Egbert.” Abruptly, the guy - or well, John - got off of the piano bench and grasped your hand.

His hands were slender, fingers long, skin a little damp from sweating. His palms were soft, unlike your calloused ones, and he flashed you another toothy grin as he shook your hand, before turning away and dashing out the hall.

You stood there for a moment, positively swooning, but only for a second. You chanted his name in your head, John, John, John, and tried to remember the address he gave you, wondering if it was his actual address.

A week later, you found out it wasn’t, when you decided to mail him a letter with some of your developed photos of him as well as message that read ‘you still owe me another shot.’ You signed the note off with your name, a doodle of yourself (literally just a round head with side bangs and sunglasses) and your pesterchum handle. Despite it not being his actual apartment, John still got the message, as he gave you his friend Karkat’s info instead. Turns out he still lived with his father a good ways away from campus, and would rather expose his friends’ info than make you go out of your way to deliver a letter. He also thought it’d be a hilarious prank on his grumpy pal. What a cute, sweet, considerate douchebag.

He ended up pestering you a few days afterwards, and since then you guys literally never stopped talking.

Since your classes were so close together, you often hung out with him in between lectures and figure drawings. He told you about his (uniornic) love for Nic Cage movies, and you told him about your love of irony. He didn’t really get it at first, but you told him no one ever does, and that was kind of the point. 

It wasn’t long before you were asking him out on a date (you didn’t outright say the word ‘date’ though - but dinner and a movie was a pretty obvious suggestion anyways). It wasn’t your first, but for some reason you were more nervous than a pre-teen girl asking her middle school senpai to sit with her at lunch on the rooftop before handing him a homemade bento box she prepared all by herself. 

So here you were, pacing around in your cramped studio apartment, wearing nothing but a towel and deodorant. Picking an outfit was proving to be just a little more difficult than you thought. Not that you cared about what you looked like or anything but you’d be damned if you went out on your first ~~not~~ date looking anything but super duper fly. 

On your bed is a never-ending row of jeans. All are either dark blue or black, and most are skinny jeans. Wow with so many options to choose from (5) it was no wonder you were having serious trouble picking a pair of jeans from the totally non-identical pile.

On the other side of the bed were a plethora of shirts. Button-ups, sweaters, jackets, t-shirts - short sleeved, full sleeved, quarter sleeved. Naturally, as an art major, you had a keen eye for aestheticism, and this of course extended out to fashion. Thus, you went a little crazy when it came to clothes shopping. But, since you grew up poor as shit and being an on-hire photographer/full-time student doesn’t really help much with the bills, you took thrift shopping to a whole new level.

Almost everything you own came from hand-me-downs and thrift stores. It took a lot of thrifting and a lot of time visiting different cities/towns and sometimes even states before you were able to compile a good pile of affordable clothing, and your frugalness was a thing you took pride in. Your Bro would be so proud, if only he were still alive to witness it.

Shit, now’s not the time to be thinking about Bro. Okay, focus Dave. What should you wear? Black jeans are a given, but what else? 

Well, considering you _were_ taking him out on a kind-of-fancy-ass-shit- ~~not~~ -date, you needed to dress to impress. Not only for the gorgeous blue eyed babe that currently harbored your affections, but also for the rich snobby douche canoes that often frequented the semi-upscale sushi place you planned on taking him to.

So a burgundy button-up should do fine. 

You get dressed before sending him a quick pesterchum message, asking if he needs a ride. Which, admittedly, you don’t own a car but a bike should do fine right? Or maybe you can just pay for an uber, or a taxi or something.

Shit wait, how _were_ you going to get halfway across town and back? You should have thought of this more thoroughly...how much does an Uber go for again?  
The sound of a message tone going off pulls you out of your inner monologue in time to see that John has sent a reply. Or….a few.

EB: heh, kind of but i rather keep my traveling methods private information :B  


EB: wait a sec, don’t you like, NOT own a car?  


EB: how are you even planning on getting there?  


EB: dave?  


EB: don’t tell me you plan on riding your bicycle all the way to seattle.  


EB: that would take you like forever!!! 

Shit, he caught you.

TG: shit you caught me  


EB: daaaaaave!!  


TG: alright alright ill call a cab  


TG: its not like im a struggling artist or anything  


TG: i got tons of cash yup tons of it man  


TG: im just here swimming in hundred dolla bills  


TG: got more cash than all the kardashian sisters combined  


TG: no need to worry about me  


EG: dave i can see right through you and i know that is total bullshit.

You chuckled lightly at that, poker face breaking in absence of another human beings presence. 

TG: ok fine you caught me  


TG: i guess ill be biking there  


TG: expect a thirty minute wait these pedals can only go so fast  


EG: don’t be ridiculous dave i’ll come to you instead! should we meet up at the place or do you have an address?

Well this was a totally unexpected turn of events. Should you let him play your favored role of being the gentleman and instead act as the delicate maiden eagerly awaiting for her white carriage powered by four beautiful horses, or should you play it cool and modern, both meeting up halfway?

The thought of him seeing your small ~~messy, selfie-filled~~ apartment sent a small, bundle of nerves ricketing down your spine for reasons unbeknownst to you, but you decided that it’d be much better than hauling your bike in the chill, fall weather for three miles to and back.

TG: i live on Derse 312, east side of campus  


TG: dont be late your lady awaits  


EG: ok! see ya soon! :B

Little did you know, those three words would be the prologue to the chapter retelling the best day of your life.


End file.
